A Kyrie for the New World
by nosolitudeIamaTRICKSTER
Summary: Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence. Slow to start, but give it a chance! (Final chapter is up.)
1. Chapter 1

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **CHAPTER ONE**

Gossamer threads wind slowly around a fingertip, as fishing line coils upon its reel (1). The ghost fibers tighten with every revolution. Under an eerie teal light, the tresses take on an aquamarine sheen. Around the nail, the skin grows colder and turns a deeper purple by the second. That's fine, its owner notes. The gentle throb provides an interesting contrast to the near-soporific state of his pulse.

Which is an even more interesting contrast to the current situation.

"Near!" The shout thunders through the figure in white huddled on the floor among modems and machinery, the panic instilling a tremor to the voice emanating from one of the thousands of computer monitors dressing the walls like glowing picture frames. "Agent Sutch—"

The floss coil unwinds from his finger. With the most infinitesimal tilt of the head and just the barest shift of cold, dark irises, Near turns his attention upon warehouse monitor three. Three twitching bodies lie on the floor before an open vault, their hands to their bleeding chests. Awash in the grainy slate monochrome, the figure on screen dashes into a blindspot.

"I see him, Agent Lidner. Deploy the RK and return to base"(2). Pinching the end of one particularly springy curl, he stretches it to its limit and allows it to fall over his eye.

He needs a haircut.

Agent Thad Sutch has been in his employ for five years (3). Extensive background checks had failed to turn up any marks on the man's flawless record. The SPK does not allow just anyone into even its lowest ranks. That is how _he_ lost.

Near does not intend to lose.

Near switches to camera five. The vault door hangs open. In it, only one safe deposit box of the many remains obviously disturbed. Four black shapes can just be made out among the shadows if Near cares to squint. The mystery of it is enough for the man to forget he has plenty more curl to tug at. The safe should be empty.

This is either luck or something more concerning at work. Since Near does not believe in luck, he presses the button on a nearby mic.

"RK-1," he addresses, "ETA."

The low, synthetic voice of a vocoder crackles over the speaker. "A minute and twenty."

"Not fast enough," Near reprimands in the tonal equivalent of drying paint. "Rester. Target's current location."

"Got into a cab. Hold on. ...Yeah. Headed downtown, looks like."

Downtown. What was downtown?

"RK-1," commands Near, "You are looking for a cab. AR will send you coordinates."

"Roger."

Near at last recalls the protein strands upon his head, and he wasted no time twirling them. Sutch's only motivation now appears to be escape, but he won't risk his best agents in his capture. This is a mission befitting of an RK— a member of an emergency task force, whose identity is known only to him. As of three minutes ago, the SPK has become compromised.

To think that in three months Sutch would have been cleared to enter N-rank. Near remembers with satisfaction how he had delayed his clearance only a week ago. He adds another polkadotted cube to his dice tower. The playing card castle behind him threatens to topple over him. It shudders as Near commences building the second tower and his elbow passes too close. Stopping, he waits for it to stabilize before continuing construction.

No, luck has nothing to do with any of this. Fortune has not cared once for him since his entrance into this world.

Why bother with Faith when he has Knowledge on his side?

* * *

RK-1 is less than a non-entity. They are a phantom of a memory of a daydream. Names have no power here.

So they tell themself.

They have been flying helicopters for eight years yet their grip on the cyclic slips now as their fingers shake and their palms moisten. Expert training and professional composure have a penchant for crumbling in the face of crossing the Great Divide.

An RK afraid of death. L would...well. He would not laugh. RK-1 doubts the guy has a sense of humor. One time they tried to make an alphabet pun for the sake of breaking the ice and all they got for their effort was a chilled silence.

Silence is what RK-1 steeps themself in as they drag tired eyes over the sea of skyscrapers. Dusk has fallen upon the Big Apple and damn does it make it harder to scan license plate numbers. Traffic has thankfully (never once in their life would RK-1 ever think that they would have such a thought) slowed to its usual Manhattan pace. Fiddling with the buttons on their visor, they flick on the night vision and zoom in on the tiny yellow rectangles below. After this is over, they resolve to grab an ice cream and hang out by the East River. It is not all that far away and they can land on the helipad over at—

"Target sighted." RK-1 confirms the string of numbers and letters with one AR. "That's him. Right, he's getting out. By the heliport. Sending coordinates."

A silence even more chilled than the one that followed that failed pun ensues before L decimates it. "Do you have _that_ item, RK-1?"

That item. Yes. It will be the first time they have ever used such a thing. That item accounts for only an iota of their anxiety.

Now, they are not one to question orders. A superior tells them to jump, RK-1 doesn't bother asking how high and simply hurls their body in an upwardly direction. Yet they feel compelled to maybe, just maybe have L reconsider. After all, they have heard some worrisome rumors about the destruction of the items in their target's possession and even though the pay is good and they knew what they were getting into, they will do what they can to extend their lifespan.

"Don't you think it's overkill?" RK-1 asks, even while knowing the answer.

L's voice sounds terse even when blanketed in static and audio fuzz. "The target can't be allowed to make it past the river."

"Got it." RK-1 manipulates the collective lever and off they are to the heliport.

"Patch us through to your video feed."

Icebergs could form from that tone. They barely fight down the compulsion to rub the back of their head. In RK-1's defense, this is their first deployment and they are chasing Death himself. Anyone can forget procedure in the midst of all of this excitement.

In L's defense... Same reasoning.

RK-1 pokes around on their visor's touch pad, and a small REC appears in the corner of the display. L is silent, again.

"Too crowded," they swear L murmurs. The ripple of irritation is just barely present beneath the cool intonation of the speech synthesizer. But he is right. The heliport is not as deserted as it could be.

Sutch walks stiffly over to one of the choppers, its blades whirling in anticipation of the flight ahead.

"Target is approaching the Bell 407 ," RK-1 says, descending. "Orders?"

"Wait until he is in the air."

Half of Sutch disappears into the helicopter. A second later, a figure spills out of the cockpit. Sutch climbs behind the controls.

"Dead," muses L. "For a while now, it seems." Again, he falls silent. This silence RK-1 recognizes— the silence of gray matter furiously grinding out from its cogs innumerable theories and infinite scenarios.

"Pursue," L says simply when he comes out of his trance.

"Roger," RK-1 replies, and they give chase.

At seven-thousand feet in the air, they are instructed to give Sutch his warning. A mere formality. Every one of the voices buzzing away in RK-1's earpiece know not to expect compliance or a change of heart in a man who no longer owns his own mind. The operative switches on a megaphone.

"Agent Thad Sutch. By order of the SPK, you are to land immediately and surrender yourself. You are to come out with your hands up. I repeat—"

Agent Thad Sutch gives zero indication that he has heard RK-1 and continues on his merry way over the East River.

L's reaction to the disobedience is immediate. "Move to terminate target."

RK-1 manages to not sigh aloud. This is the course of action that they have been _trying_ to avoid. They switch to autopilot, reach over beside them, and heft the RPG over their shoulder.

Please don't kill us both, the RK attempts to plead telepathically with the firearm. They lean out of the cockpit and focus their sights on the Bell at twelve o'clock.

Reaper Killer One fires.

In the movies, when the shit goes down, all slows to a snail's crawl. Sounds are dull roars and distant bellows in one's ears. Perhaps a lifetime flashes before one's eyes.

When Sutch's arm, seconds before the missile strikes, thrusts out of the cockpit and those black collections of deadly paper that RK-1 has only seen in photographs and slide shows in dark rooms disappear, all three movie cliches play out in full color and one-hundred percent reality. They only just remember to pull up and away before the shrapnel can crash into the windscreen.

As the chopper goes down into the water, the silence on the other end grows ice spikes.

"Well," RK-1 says. "He didn't make it past the river."

* * *

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXV**

• In the world of gods of death there are a few copies of what humans may call user guidebook for using the Death Note in the human world. However, the guidebook is not allowed to be delivered to humans.

• It is perfectly okay for gods of death to read the guidebook for him/herself and teach humans about its contents, no matter what the content may include.

* * *

 **Author Notes** :

Before I do the notes, I want to thank everyone who reviewed So the World's Greatest Detective & His Lover's Father Walk into a Bar. I wasn't expecting such kindness or faves, even. I've started on the second chapter but I'm having trouble thinking of a middle and end.

Okay, so. Notes.

1\. In keeping with Death Note's tradition of fucking ridiculous English names, Thad Sutch is born. Please cherish my Original Character.

2\. Near...hmmm. This is supposed to be the movieverse but just because he has white curly hair doesn't mean he can't still be that Thai boy from L Change the World. He changed his appearance okay. He had to go undercover.

3\. Ah, the Reaper Killer, my other Original Character Do Not Steal. The RK thing is a cheesy idea but I was going for a movie-like feel with this fic so hopefully it isn't too ridiculous.

4\. This was my first attempt to write an action scene in the vein of the Higuchi chase? Don't know how I did.

Please keep in mind that this takes place in a verse where Light Up the New World didn't happen. There was maybe a previous incident with the notebooks maybe. I'll insert that into the sequel if I can. It will definitely fuck with the flow if I drop in a flashback. Also it's been a while since I watched the first two movies so apologies if I get some details wrong! It's also been some time since I visited Manhattan so if I got that wrong too...

Speaking of which, I feel like Near would try to move the locations of the notebooks around so thus Manhattan one day...Madrid the next...you get the deal.

I know this chapter was short but please read and review!


	2. Chapter 2

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **TW's:** References to suicide, shootings, allusions to sexual content.

 **CHAPTER TWO**

Ryu Ryuugu cannot believe the stupidity of mankind.

Last week, the body of a child had been discovered broken and stuffed in a ditch behind the old elementary school. This week three girls have gone missing. Today, a college freshman attacked five of his classmates on campus before shooting himself.

Who do they feature on the evening news? Some pop idol.

From the darkness of his blanket cocoon, Ryu fixes his television with a glare that most people might find frightening if they could see under his matted black fringe and also past the tenebrism at work in this sorry habitat. "Living quarters" is putting it lightly— undoubtedly, not even vermin would infest this room. At least two dozen snack containers have replaced the carpet. Cramming the shelves are plastic, colorful figurines of buxom, soft-faced maidens. Directly under it is a dusty desk. Set up against the wall is a thoroughly disheveled bed. The curtains are pulled tight over the windows, where drippings of late noon sun leak through any crack or slit. To look upon this panoply of despair is to know wretchedness in a single glance.

The room's one source of illumination lights up Ryu's scowl like a jack-o-lantern— that, and the phone he taps and prods in between commercials.

A knock comes at his door. "Ryu, honey," a woman calls sweetly, "aren't you going to have supper?"

"Kind of busy, Mom," snaps Ryu as he sends an old classmate a nasty tweet.

"Well, okay. Don't stay up too late! I'm going out with Hanako in five minutes."

"Yeah, yeah."

Ryu consumes program after program, foregoing digesting information carefully and piece by piece in favor of gorging himself on rumors of their god's return, serial killer documentaries, and conspiracy theory videos.

The piece of gossip that has proven to be the most tantalizing and one Ryu never ceased to follow obsessively is that Lord Kira the Everlasting has been lying low of late, in America and under a new name. Morale among his people lies even lower. But certain parts of the Internet insist that all of the hard evidence lies in the helicopter explosion over Manhattan a few weeks back.

Since the start of high school, he has followed the Kira case closely from its thrilling beginning to its whimper of an end. Every scrap of evidence pointing to his god's continued existence he hunts across the net. The source isn't important— it can be a blog documenting the short life and celebrity of that one singer-model from ten years back or a tabloid newspaper insisting that Kira has in fact reincarnated as a child star. Ryu collects it all in one bookmark he has named "Hope for a New World."

The hope hunter finds, however, that he is famished not long after one of his favorite shows ends. "Mom!" he yells. "Can you bring me my food?"

After three whole minutes of waiting, Ryu calls for her again. His stomach rumbles and then he recalls where she has gone to. Out with Hanako. Right.

Might as well get this over with. Grumbling, he pulls open the door and shambles down the hall to the kitchen. Pale and almost skeletal, it very well could be considered a miracle that the ghoulish Ryu does not melt in all of this light. Ducking down his head, he wraps himself better in the blanket and tries not to look in the mirror by the entrance as he speeds by.

As he does, he notices a shadow dropping down. A downed blackbird, thinks Ryu. Possibly. The severe shine of the afternoon and the frosted glass of the door prevent him from ascertaining what exactly that fallen something is. Ryu looks to the kitchen, then back at the door. Something bubbles in his brain.

One little peek cannot hurt. He shuffles cautiously to the front door. He will not die if he leaves the house. A little curiosity cannot be bad.

Contrariwise, believing in such garbage could very well be.

Placing one hand on the handle, Ryu breathes in. He pushes down, pushes out and he takes a step forward.

The sun, however westerly its trajectory, fries his eyes right of his head. Cradling his skull with one hand, he uses the crook of his elbow as a visor. He turns his scowl to the sky. He looks left, he looks right. He tips his head down. Lifts his foot. Stares. He stares down at it until his mouth waters.

Mere words cannot describe the rush of emotions Ryu Ryuugu feels upon seeing it.

His fingers itch for it, termites and ants marching in the blood vessels from wrist to knuckle in protest of his lack of action. What is this feeling that takes hold of him as soon as eye meets print? Oh, to run a fingertip down its spine. In his mouth whirls sand storms. His tongue is a length of wool. The only water in sight must be beneath this bit of twine wrapped round it. Tongue presses to cracked, ruined lips. Hunger can wait.

Ryu picks up the newspaper and throws it in the general direction of the paper delivery boy, who disappears around the bend in the nick of time. "This is the fifth time! It's ten to two!"

Lazy paper boys (1). Under Kira's rule, this would be a thing of the past. Sweeping an eye over the front page (CHESS CHAMP LAST SEEN IN LONDON! and ROBBER USES HEAT VISION TO PLUNDER NEIGHBORHOOD!) Ryu crams the paper into his underarm and returns to the foyer. He can cut out the article covering the First Church of Kira to add to his scrapbook of hope.

It is not the mirror that causes him to nearly stumble over an odd end of the blanket when he comes in from the horrible, horrible outdoors. Sitting by the door is a box. This is not entirely unusual. This house has seen many a package delivery. Ryu wanders over. On top of the box in question is a gift-wrapped...magazine? He does not remember ordering a skin mag this month. Picking it up, he turns it over. There, on the sticker label, is his name in the cleanest, neatest handwriting. He feels a hostile possessiveness come over him as his fingertips near the cover. This is his. His. His, his, his.

Ryu blinks, waking up. He had come out of his room for something else, he could have sworn. Whatever. It can wait.

* * *

Turns out, he _had_ ordered a girlie magazine. Sometimes he swears he would lose his head if it were not attached.

He lies on his back, arms stretched over him as he examines the fold-out. These things are always so misleading. And yet, Ryu keeps buying them. The thought puts a bit of a squirm in him for a second before the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," he groans to no one as he rolls out of bed and makes the harrowing journey back to the front door. Mercifully, the sun has gone away and so Ryu opens the door to—

"Hi, Ryu," Chisato says, twisting some of her dark earth-brown hair in her hand. Her gaze could not be farther from his face. Women are always like this and it is getting on Ryu's last nerve. "C—can I come in?"

He thinks about denying her but that would mean tears and Ryu only wants a simple night of haunting BBSes and looking at indecent photographs. He steps aside. Chisato walks in.

"I'm sorry. I found myself in the neighborhood again. Ryu. Since high school I really have been thinking about how to say this— "

Patience is not an inexhaustible resource. "Is this going to take long? I have something. In the...oven."

Chisato's beaming face crumbles. "Right. I'm sorry. Yes. Ryu, you're interested in Kira, aren't you? You tweet about it every day." When no answer comes, she sighs. "Well, I saw this in the street. I— I think it might have something to do with him."

Chisato moves her purse off her shoulder, reaches her arm into it, and pulls out the third mysterious something that day.

Something flat, long, and rectangular.

Ryu has to blink twice at this one. Either the sun from his little excursion has gotten to him or he is really seeing this. His belly performs a spectacular flop as his brain grows too large for his skull. The dizziness and the tsunami of blood thrashing in his ears come at him fast.

The thing in Chisato's hand should not exist. An abomination fans his face as she waves it at him. This bible of demons rustles its leaves with every one of her hand movements, howling the first few strains of a fiendish chant.

"I know it's covered in sparkles," Chisato chirps, "but it has 'kira kira' written in it so I thought..." She brings the notebook closer to his face. "It's silly, but I think it suits you. Go on, it's yours."

Ryu offers naught but a deadpan stare and a poor excuse for a farewell. "My mom's calling me."

As he waves goodbye to Chisato's pouting face, Ryu sulks about his rotten life. Lord Kira never has to deal with girls, he bets. He turns and lifts his foot, ready to step over that beautiful boundary that separates the chaos of fresh air and the sane homeliness of a quiet room.

There are people who believe that the Rota Fortunae is nothing but a medieval fancy to sweeten the cruel aftertaste of a too real world. In some respects, they are not far off. But there is hubris in a three-hundred thousand year old race declaring a renaissance every generation, in deciding their current greatest technological discovery is the pinnacle of scientific achievement.

So Fortuna may not smile upon some people. There are those, however, whom she frowns upon.

Ryu, in this moment, becomes one of those forsaken people.

Butterfly wings whisper past his ears, a doomed flight that ends in collision with the hardwood floor.

 _Thwap!_

Craning his head, Ryu blinks slowly down at the fallen black swallowtail. It is a sorry-looking arthropod, too large and clumsy for flight, too exhausted from all of the effort it has certainly placed in its failed lift-off. Ryu combs his skull, which pounds so punishingly hard he is certain his head visibly pulses, for that report from back in fifth grade. Two discrepancies he is able to turn up.

One, it is too early in the season for butterflies. Two, black swallowtails are more commonly found in the Americas. He kneels down. He really does have to eat if he is mistaking notebooks for insects.

Chisato must have left this here. Ryu grimaces at the prospect of meeting with her again to return it. All he wants is his precious little solitude.

Chalk-white runes seem to gleam like silver against the pitch of the notebook cover. Ryu attempts to decipher them. Phags-pa? Cuneiform? It looks like no other language that he has seen on the face of earth.

Powerful curiosity has him by the throat, which gulps and gasps at the sight of the amrit mere centimeters from his fingertips. He has a feeling. He cannot tell if it is a good feeling but it is a feeling nonetheless. This is the day his life turns around. Today he attains a greatness like no other. Everyone will be sorry. He will make them sorry. All of the world unlocked and ready for instruction is only a brush, a touch, and a tap away.

Ryu's index finger reaches, stretches. Farewell, worry. Go well, boredom.

The trembling digit lands upon that first cryptic rune and with a primal scream, Ryu Ryuugu is reborn.

* * *

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXVI**

• Some limited number of Death Notes have white or red front covers but they would make no difference in their effects, as compared with the black cover Death Notes.

* * *

 **Author Notes** :

1\. I thought this would be too "American" an image and also maybe outdated with the decline of the paper newspaper but there are actually newspaper delivery personnel in Japan. They seem to ride on scooters tho.

So yeah this fic is basically finished I want to add in a chapter or two for Character Development and also Pacing but we'll see what happens. Thanks for stopping by!


	3. Chapter 3

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **CHAPTER THREE**

Think of the grayest possible winter morning. Death is in the canopy of twisted, cracked boughs. A breath of air embeds your esophageal lining with frigid splinters. Nothing but the cold hard ground holds you up. Everything is a shade of sleet and slate.

That is the Shinigami realm.

Dust corpses are as plentiful as anthills. Typically, they populate popular napping spots— under trees, cave entrances, and around the viewing pools. An atmosphere of utter boredom infests these grave sites but the ennui does not move very far from the impromptu tombs. Since about a year ago, things have become damn exciting.

"Another game?"

"Another!"

"Lost my turn this time around but that bastard gets three chances. Three!"

"Has anyone seen my Death Note?"

The world of death is abuzz with exchanges—of thoughts, ideas and gambling prizes. Shinigami working out strategy on rock walls! Shinigami showing active interest in the mortal world! Armonia Justin Beyondormason would perhaps fear for his position as the King's right hand if ever he were to witness such a scene.

"You think he'll find him?" coughs a masked blond Shinigami.

"I hope he doesn't," rasps a Shinigami with a prominent vertebrae. "I have three apples from the mortal realm at stake."

Nu blinks her thirty-some eyes, rotating in place until her body points away from all the racket and fanfare. The feelings of regret are nice to soak in but the noise it brings is not worth it. The Realm is not what it used to be— more of a concert hall of machinations and cachinnations than the world of death. Her fellow Shinigami must really want the throne. Nu, the second most powerful god of death, could not care if she were to try.

Yet, she is curious. She loves entertainment like any of her skeletal comrades. It is the hubbub she detests. Eyes closing and opening out of sync, she settles by a viewing pool and rakes her numerous irises all over the globe. Names and lifespans jump out at her as she searches. She takes her time. Nu is a responsible Shinigami. No one attains top rank due to obscene laziness.

A hospital in Kanto draws her eyes. In the viewing pool, she waves away the walls of the hospital as if they are nothing. The babble of the hospital residents are, thankfully, but a tinny murmur. Whispers of a man who has finally awoken shake the halls. The beautiful Hikaru Tsukuyomi has risen from his grave of spotless linen. The heir to a grand church, they say. The one to lead us all, they breathe behind their hands.

Nu reaches over to the pile of powder next to her, shakes out the book underneath and readies her veiny wings, two red optic nerve forms sprouting from her back. Perhaps she will get in on this throne business after all.

* * *

The life form known as Ryu Ryuugu does not stop screaming. He shrieks as he gawks at the jeweled skeleton before him. He howls as his eyes dart from gem to gem and from bone to bone. He yelps shrilly when he stumbles backwards into the entrance in an attempt to flee the monstrosity at the door, the book he holds between two shaking fingers dangerously close to slipping from his grasp.

"I wouldn't let go of that if I were you," snickers the creature.

Scrambling even farther from the door, Ryu cries out right before colliding headfirst into the hallway mirror.

While staring, almost mesmerized, at the image of him and the mess of dark, dark brown hair and even darker eyes and the gushing head wound, and the notebook he clutches to his chest reflected within the glass, he almost fails to hear the voice calling to him, drifting in through the open front door.

"Ryu?"

Ryu retreats, scuttling down the corridor until he happens on the door at the end of the hall, its plaque labeled "Ryu-chan's room" in bubbly kanji. Ryu throws himself into the quarters, locking the door behind him. Not a moment later, he hears a knock.

"Ryu, sweetie. I came home early and I—Was that you, screaming? Did you lose a video game?"

Mama Ryuugu speaks the incantation of silence. Ryu's bulging eyes retract back into their sockets. The man's thin lips are pressed together.

"Yes," he says. He ogles the door.

The voice on the other side speaks again. "Ryu, honey, do you want me to leave your dinner by your door?"

"No, I am fine. Thank you."

Silence follows. Then—

"Ryu? Baby? Are you all right?"

"I am," Ryu answers. The next word coats his tongue like glue. "Mother. I am fine."

"Well, okay," she says after a second or two. "Good night. Don't stay up too late, now."

"I will not," replies the voice of her son. As soon as she retreats, he creeps towards the desk all while refusing to break eye contact with the ghoul whose cranium scrapes the ceiling.

"Shinigami," Ryu says in a low murmur, settling down into the swivel chair, "what is this game?"

"Precisely as you say," answers a voice of gravel, unfurling his carpus to the man as he gestures towards the notebook in Ryu's hands. "A game."

Hunkering down in his seat, the man fixes the monster with a look while stashing the notebook underneath his shirt and drawing the keyboard towards him. "May I have a name?"

The golden skull above him clicks his mandible in soft laughter. "Armonia. Armonia Justin Beyondormason. And you, mortal?"

Ryu would laugh right back if he were certain that he would not choke on his own disbelief. He swallows. "You know my name."

That would be debatable. Beyondormason eyes the faded name and scrambled numbers above Ryu's head but says nothing.

Ryu descends upon the computer, summoning an old high school composition. Ryu Ryuugu. Class A-2. This is sorted into a mental filing cabinet.

A good thing he has so much room in there because he immediately proceeds to delete every last trace of his current identity from the hard drive, committing to memory every last element of this life as he does.

"Shinigami not knowing their own rules, their own source of their existence. How very mystifying." Hunched over the desk, Ryu positions his fingers over the keyboard. In a breath and a blink, the digits are flitting from one end to the other, backwards and forwards and all over. He manipulates systems and computer keys as expertly as a master musician maneuvers clavier.

" _I_ know the rules," sniffs Armonia. "I merely choose to not reveal to you the specifics. Besides, it is not important." When no response follows his explanation, Armonia cocks his skull at the hunched figure somehow managing to type a mile a minute. "What are you doing?"

After a few more keystrokes, Ryu pushes his knuckle to his teeth and bites down. "Locked out," he mutters. "Though I should have expected as much. They would have increased security and changed codes by now." Ryu squints at the computer clock. His eyes widen.

"You are one of the more clever souls this world has seen," Armonia begins. "Should you not be able to... " Armonia gropes around for the proper terminology. "... cracker these new codes on their...waiters?"

"It's 'servers,' and yes," agrees Ryu, allowing himself a tiny smile at the Shinigami's fumble, "but it would be a waste of time and could alert certain unsavory people to my presence. That handle is also currently not mine to wield."

For now.

Sinking his fingers back into the keyboard, Ryu calls up all manner of search engines and news articles. Armonia chortles and stoops down so his creaky jaw can cough unpleasantries into the man's ear. "You are taking this all in stride, aren't you?"

The only indication that Ryu has heard him is in the flicker of an iris from monitor to Shinigami to monitor.

Armonia, who is not like his fellow Shinigami in many ways, is still a being who is used to the fear and reverence of man. He will not be ignored. Surely the mortal realm has not changed all that much. He whispers the faded name in the young man's ear.

Ryu bows his head lower and keeps typing.

* * *

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXVII**

• All humans, without exception, will eventually die.

• After they die, the place they go to is Mu (nothingness).

• Once dead, they can never come back to life.

* * *

 **Author Notes:**

I'm so sad that the other Shinigami weren't really touched upon in canon. Nu seems like a lot of fun.

It's picking up a little now. Read and review, please!


	4. Chapter 4

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

The domino palace teeters dangerously over Near's head, menacing his scalp with an imminent and slightly painful collapse. Near pays no mind, flying his little plastic plane through the gate archway, motor noises bubbling up on his small, pale lips. The trickle of water from the Japanese garden behind him worries him not, nor the breeze blowing past the open glass door, ushered onward by the waving branches of the maple trees. Near does not lift his head to admire the cascade pouring into the pond, the edges of which are adorned with polished flat stones. He ignores the red bridge arching over it and does not bother to turn his gaze upon the rock formation at the foot of the sliding door.

It could have saved him.

" _Bang._ "

The dominoes spill out on top of Near's head, over his back, down his sides. They click and clatter on the smooth white floor. With his arm still high in the air and his plane still in his grasp, the youth turns until he can see clearly the cause of his palace's destruction.

A boy of ten stands on the tallest of the three rock arrangement gathered by the garden entrance. The maple trees stationed about the perimeter of the _nihon teien_ seem to bow in admiration as the wind picks up. Everywhere there is the greenery that serves to bring out the amber in the child's eyes. The child's hair is another story: a jet black fringe almost but not quite hinders his eyesight. It is a typical hair color for a typical Japanese boy.

He is not a typical Japanese boy.

Gripped in this boy's left hand is a green and blue dart gun. Near scans the ground. Sure enough, foam bullets tipped with orange suction cups join their fallen black-and-white toy brethren on the ground. He looks back at the younger boy, dark eyes not quite glowering but not exactly crinkling in delight either.

"Rabbit," Near addresses solemnly.

"Near," the child returns. He pockets the gun, hops off the stone, picks up a ball of fur that has chosen to explore the lowest stone pillar, and saunters on inside. Near follows his every movement from stone to threshold with his eyes.

"You are here to study," he tells the child, "not play with rabbits."

"Then why name me after them?" the boy laughs. Letting the coney loose in the kitchenette, Rabbit wanders over to Near. "You don't seem to be doing much yourself. Aren't you supposed to be catching that Eraldo guy? He keeps stealing work from you. At this rate, you're going to be reduced to working out of some smoky office instead of _this_."

Rabbit gestures to the walls of frosted glass and floors of marble. Near, in the midst of rebuilding a turret, has no interest in looking at "this." After moving in a week ago, the man had become bored with his surroundings within ten minutes.

"I am not here to catch Eraldo Coil," Near informs him. "I am here to investigate several disappearances."

"Hmmm?" hums Rabbit with that sly intonation. "I would think you'd be jealous. Fifty cases in a week, Near, all solved by this Eraldo. Some of them even the coldest of cold cases."

Without so much as a glance or sound, Near returns to his palace in the making. Ever since winning his title from the last L, his introduction to detective-hood has been rough. The threat of the Shinigami and their Notes have been taking up most of his time. He hasn't even a second to dedicate to envy. He has even less time to crack more than one case.

Rabbit skips from one dart to the other, popping them into his gun as he collects his artillery. "There's a lot of stuff like this in storage. You picked this place because it used to be a toy museum, didn't you?"

A careful hand places another domino upon the stack. Near will not bend. He will not sigh.

He will most definitely consider firing Roger, however. This is the last time he agrees to mentor a prodigy.

"Don't you have something you could be working on, R?" Near murmurs. Of course he knows of the secret project that the child has undertaken ever since arriving in Tokyo, the specifics of which Near is blissfully and willfully unaware. Whatever keeps Wammy House's number one student out of his curls, the third L will happily fail to question it.

"Mmm," Rabbit murmurs, locking and loading his gun. He takes aim, the crosshairs hovering about Near's shins. "Hey, Near?"

A note of sobriety in R's voice compels Near to look. The boy has upon his face a look not uncommon to most of the Wammy orphans when they have switched from play mode to a more competitive approach. This look, however...well.

It can only be described as "nasty."

Rabbit tilts his head until his ear is pressed to his shoulder. "Do you know how it feels to be shot?" he whispers. His amber eyes seem to glow with a hue sanguine and his eyeteeth seem to gleam too brightly.

Before Near can open his mouth, two foam bullets appear suctioned to his legs. A giddy little giggle razes the tension that once replaced the air. "Now you know!" R declares cheerily. He gathers the rabbit chewing on the ottoman up into his arms and runs off.

He passes Rester, whose arms overflow with groceries. The man watches the boy scamper into the hall, stop at his bedroom door, and stare at it blankly before entering. Said door slams shut a moment later.

"Were you squabbling with him again?" Rester chides gently, filling the refrigerator with provisions.

Near only builds and builds. He has no time for deconstruction.

"He's only a kid." Rester lets the red fruit tumble from the sack into the bowl. "Roger told you he's been through a lot. 'Hasn't been the same since that incident,' he said. And he has a lot of energy. That's why he eats so much, probably."

The archway will be difficult to replicate but he at least has a better idea of how to go about it— better than his ideas surrounding why, exactly, Rester feels the need to fill up the peace with noise. Near has his theories. Even after a year of being in his employment, the silence, emotional starkness and the general adult manner from a figure almost cherubic in form unnerves the man.

Rester exhales, drawing out the exasperated gust as he stands from piling snacks into a cabinet. Half of it is probably due to the strain on his back. The other half is most likely Near's fault.

Unfortunately for Rester, Near does not pay him to make small talk.

Gevanni swoops in, and if Near were more religiously-minded he would thank some higher being. The man knows how to socialize. "Hear about that drunk construction worker?" he asks Rester, handing Near his files.

"Yeah," Rester says, shaking his head as he shuts the refrigerator. "Minoru…uh?"

"Minoru Furusawa."

"I thought for sure they'd get him with the conviction rate here, but..."

Near looks at the clock. He has five minutes. At his leisure, he gathers up his backup laptop (his favorite one seems to have disappeared during the move) and finger puppets and shuffles past the kitchenette.

When he opens his laptop again, Interpol expresses their displeasure.

"Three notebooks, gone!" America snaps, smacking his palm down so hard his plaque jumps. "You were assigned the murder books because you said you were the only one who could be trusted with them!"

"Have you caught the perpetrators?" demands Italy. "We have seen before what these weapons can do in the hands of the populace."

Near slips on his Grim Reaper finger puppet. "We have reason to believe that the perpetrator was a Shinigami, a God of Death, using a Note to control one of my men."

Gasps are heard all around. Near does not bother to expend the energy towards rolling his eyes. It could be put towards a more worthwhile activity, like donning a second finger puppet. People are so predictable, so trite.

"Well, then," Near states, "if we could talk strategy—"

" _What_ strategy!?" cries Germany. "These are gods! What hope do we possibly have against them?"

"Take heart, Mr. Weber."

Another round of murmurs circulates. Rog—Watari moves the camera to one of the large screens in the meeting hall that has just flickered to life. A large letter E towers over the representatives.

"I am already in contact with one of these Shinigami."

The instant those four lines appear, Near's hand twitches towards the rook on square C7 with the intention of depositing it upon his card manor so that he may watch it all crash down.

Eraldo Coil continues. "I ask Interpol this— what has this L accomplished? It was one of his men who took the Note—"

Near cuts in. "Because of the Shinigami, something beyond the control of any hu—"

"I interact," comes the detective's rejoinder, "with this creature on a near-daily basis and I am still alive. I have solved over fifty high-profile cases since our meeting, actually."

"And what have you done, Near?" is the implicit question.

"I've sent you contacts in order to verify my statements," the letter declares. "Although I am well-aware that my presence has piqued the interest of many of you here after experiencing quite a few attempts at rummaging through my inbox."

Interpol pretends to have not heard that last line.

"How are you in contact with the Shinigami?" demands France. "Would that not mean that you are in possession of one of the murder notebooks?"

"The Reaper contacted me," is Eraldo Coil's explanation. "Apparently there are rules we have yet to learn of."

Near's grip on his king tightens. "You were asked a question, Eraldo Coil. That does not quite answer it."

It must be his imagination, hearing a lilt within that ethereal monotone. " _I_ have no possession abilities."

(Humans have no ability to possess but the Shinigami, on the other hand…Near does not pursue this line of enquiry any farther.)

Interpol whispers and hisses amongst their peers. Near feels the king's crown prick his thumb.

"You have a promising track record," concedes the United States, looking through his attachments. "Much more than this L," he does not and does not have to say.

"Not promising enough for me, I am afraid. Why should we trust you?" Italy asks. "You trespassed upon this meeting. You intercepted our communications."

"You have attempted the same with me," Eraldo returns. "Enough. Listen carefully. The longer you wait, the more of an opportunity the Shinigami have to drop a murder notebook. Deliberate amongst yourselves which of us you trust with the mission to take back the notebooks but do not take too long."

As Near ponders the ethics of taking the handle of one of Eraldo's burner accounts and sending out emails concerning Eraldo's love life that are decidedly, shall he say, not fact-checked, a little red "one" icon appears next to his inbox.

A message from eruldocoyel11 at vanish dot net awaits him.

"Near," it reads, and the boy's heart flits straight to his throat, "let's have a little wager."

Eyes growing colder, Near mutes Interpol and fires back—"What is it?"

Moments later, the icon reappears.

"They are inevitably going to employ us both so allow me to suggest a game to you.

I declare upon you a detective war.

If you find the Notes first, your position as L is assured. If I find them first

I get your title."

Near opens the attachments: screencapped conversations between Eraldo Coil and Interpol members, dated anywhere from three days to ten hours ago. The general sentiment held towards the third L within these discussions is not terribly flattering.

"Think of this as a means of gaining the trust of the world's police organizations, a little test. You require their cooperation if you plan on working with them in the future."

The cursor on his monitor blinks in and out of existence as Near deliberates with himself.

L is for Libra. K is for Killer, for Karmic, for Kaiser.

N is for Near. N is for Nothing. N is for No One.

To win you must first attack.

Near types out one word into his composition and hits send. He returns to the meeting in progress.

"—have come to a decision regarding—"

"We know," Near drones. "You want us to work together."

The stung silence tells Near he is correct at least about this. He shoots off another e-mail, cuts the connection with Interpol and turns back to his chess pieces. Gevanni comes in a moment later with his requested toy, Rabbit at his heels. Near takes it.

"If you would, go and pick up the latest model-building kit." He has quite a bit of de-stressing to do, and it would be a better use of the box cutter than what he has had in mind.

A foam bullet lands and sticks to the bridge of Near's nose. He closes his eyes. He is getting that kit soon and anyway he is just a child, a traumatized child lashing out at the world—

"And take him with you."

* * *

Hikaru Tsukuyomi opens his eyes and screeching mouth to the faces of his fellow churchgoers, a beautiful black book sprawled open on his chest, and a demon.

Dimly he is aware of the gentle beeping of the heart monitor and the soporific drone of the news anchor on the television above their heads urging them to call anyone if they have seen child chess prodigy Raizo Beppu.

As his heart reboots, Hikaru attempts to take in the awed whisper of Miki Tomoe who clasps her hands together. "Brother Hikaru," she says, sounding very much as though she is about to faint, "you have been chosen!"

Hikaru finds there is no voice in his throat. He can only stare.

Brother Yuki Mizuki places a hand over his heart. "Do you see him?" At Hikaru's blank stare, he clarifies. "The emissary of our Lord and God. Do you see him?"

Nu huffs. "I am a female."

Swallowing, Hikaru runs a hand through his hair. "Of course," is his smooth reply. "Why would I not?"

Brother Yuri Akiyama bows his head in prayer. "Lord Kira," he murmurs, "you have blessed us."

Hikaru gets to his feet despite the protests if his siblings of faith. "You must rest!" Yuki insists. "Lord Kira has given you this gift and so—"

"I think you will find," Hikaru interjects dryly, "that Lord Kira would want me to get to work as soon as possible." He steps into his slippers and calls for a nurse.

He will not allow this golden opportunity to slip from between his fingers. It is not every day you are reborn.

* * *

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXVIII**

•Only the presiding Shinigami King may grant new notebooks to Shinigami.

•It is forbidden for Shinigami to fashion their own notebooks and pass it off as the real thing.

* * *

 **Author Notes:**

Was Eraldo Coil ever mentioned in the movies? I don't have access to them at the moment but I don't remember the other detective codes being mentioned.

why did Ohba not get into the Kira cults and shit omfg what a lost opportunity I mean I guess he did with the Kira's Kingdom shit but it wasn't enough sorry anyway read and review pls.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary:** Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

Gevanni is a simple man.

If he is asked to infiltrate, he infiltrates. If he is commanded to stalk, he stalks. If he is asked to hold a murder notebook, he will hold it but he will make sure it is held out twenty feet before him, even though his arms are not that long.

Gevanni will do a lot of things for Near. He has seen what the man is capable of and he has his complete trust and devotion. The sleepless nights of chasing Kira after Kira, moving two-inch thick murder weapons from safe house to safe house, having to be on the run constantly from the smarter of that dead idiot teenager's supporters, and stepping on a Lego or ten have been worth it for him. So it says a lot when this mission is causing him to consider putting in his two weeks' notice.

"Stephen," addresses the tiny voice at Gevanni's hip, muffled by the plastic mask fitted over the tiny face of its owner. "Stephen, I would like to pay a visit to the museum."

"No, Rabbit," Gevanni grumbles, seizing the child's hand again for the fourth time that day. "Please. I keep telling you not to call me that. I'll take you to the museum after we go to the hobby shop." He fails to see the appeal of a museum to a child who lives in one. More importantly, they would have to pass the police station and Gevanni does not want to gamble losing such a fidgety child around there of all places.

Rabbit is silent before shrugging and allowing Gevanni to grip his hand. "Very well, Stephen but know this—there must be actual bread and circuses present in order to gain the appeasement of your charges. Do not make promises you cannot keep."

Gevanni gives Rabbit a look before tugging him down the street. He will not remind Rabbit to speak normally. He swears the kid talks like that just to upset him.

Any child in possession of an abnormally high intellect is going to be unsettling in some capacity but the orphans of Wammy's House take it to another level. Though Near has nothing but his utmost respect, the man has his moments. Gevanni asked him once and only once why he does not smile more. Never again will he make the mistake of getting social with the third L.

Rabbit has apparently forgotten how to speak and Gevanni is grateful for the peace but knows he cannot overlook it for long. When Rabbit is quiet, he is planning. Gevanni traces Rabbit's line of sight to a policeman entering a coffee shop.

"No one should recognize you with the mask on," Gevanni reassures gently. Immediately, he feels guilty. Abusive homes can destroy a child and the system does not always know what is best for them. Gevanni has seen the filthy underbelly of the foster care system for himself. He squeezes Rabbit's hand lightly. At least at Wammy's House, no child is neglected.

Rabbit turns his masked face away and Gevanni swears for a moment he sees his little shoulders shake. Palm on the child's back, Gevanni directs him to the hobby shop. "Hey. Why don't I take you to the toy store after this?"

Rabbit again says nothing at all but allows himself to be ushered towards the shop nonetheless, taking one last look at the coffee shop before entering.

Gevanni thought that maybe he would be able to depend on Rabbit for this mission, but the boy looks just as lost as he. This is his first time actually purchasing a…what was it again? A modeling kit? As in, for super models? Gevanni envisions something he wishes he could unsee. That man-child can hardly pull off a smile, let alone a catwalk strut. Dazed, he keeps his eyes peeled for anyone stocking the shelves or a face behind the counter. When none are spotted, Gevanni takes it upon himself to browse.

Finally, he sees them—boxes and boxes featuring blocky, colorful robots. Gevanni, however, finds that he is still lost as he has no idea which is the correct box and he feels that contacting Near over a non-issue is not the best use of either of their time.

To begin with, he feels that picking out a toy for a grown man is a waste of time but…

"Rabbit," he starts, "which do you think—"

Except Rabbit is no longer at his side.

Forget leaping. Gevanni's heart is gone from his chest. He has the boy's name at the back of his throat as he opens his mouth, only stopping at the sound of a strained sob. Gevanni creeps around the corner, stopping by the baby dolls and toy strollers once he hears a soft, tender voice.

"Your mother should be here somewhere. Don't cry."

It does not occur to Gevanni to ask himself why he is sneaking around like some criminal. Instead, he peeps around the corner at a head of black hair pulled back into a tiny pigtail.

"Shh, shh, shh. Not to worry."

Gevanni looks past the pigtail and freezes. He knows that he does not see what he thinks he is seeing—Rabbit gently patting away a lost little girl's tears and speaking to her in a comforting murmur that makes Gevanni honestly wonder, quite ludicrously, if this only child has little siblings that their research has failed to uncover.

"Be a big girl, now," Rabbit tells her, setting down his backpack. He unclips something from a zipper and presses it into her hand. "Usa-chan will be sad if you don't stop crying soon."

The little girl, whimpering, accepts the rabbit keychain, swaying in such a way that Gevanni fears she may topple over. Rabbit pats her head, about to offer more consoling words when he sees Gevanni. He withdraws his hand and straightens up.

"Why, there's Stephen now," he says out loud, an obnoxious grin breaking out over his mouth. "Hello, Stephen!"

The child sniffles and breaks down into a fresh round of tears. This is enough to summon her mother, who comes marching down the aisle. "Minako!" she scolds, grabbing her daughter's hand. "What did I tell you about staying close to me?"

Rabbit watches the mother pull the little girl away, a look bordering on disdain shaping his face. Gevanni prods his back gently. "Come on. I found it. Let's go."

Rabbit says nothing as Gevanni approaches the counter with his selection, is silent as a grave as he puts away his wallet, does not even struggle as Gevanni reaches for his hand. That last bit of passivity is cause for worry. "Hey," he says, kneeling down so that he is eye level with the child, "is there something you want to talk about?"

R turns his face away. Gevanni presses the subject. "I know we're still strangers to you, but I'm an adult. If something is happening, I should know. I can help."

The boy turns his face back upon the man. Gevanni fights back the urge to jump back. Rabbit's expression would not look out of place among a collection of _oni_ masks. "Can you?" he whispers, and then again turns his face away.

Quietly, Gevanni checks again to see that he has his receipt, then remembers that the third L can afford another kit if he has bought the wrong one. He reaches again for Rabbit's hand, but he is too late. He grasps air.

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXIX**

The particulars of the Death Note i.e. how it is able to kill, how the lifespan of a human is transferred to that of a Shinigami, is unknown. This is considered forbidden knowledge among the Shinigami.

 **Author Notes:**

Rabbit had to be developed more, so I put aside a filler chapter. Maybe a bit unnecessary and too short but ummm I am shrugging at you right now ok. This is my first time finishing a story. It's a learning experience.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary:** Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **CHAPTER SIX**

The storage unit is where Ryu last left it. Rusted at the hinge, locked and chained twice over, the door takes some elbow grease to move. Ryu is up to the challenge— most challenges, actually. He feels pretty good about his most recent one.

He will not lose. But he needs motivation, just a little push.

Or maybe he is feeling a tad nostalgic.

He steps in the dust and mustiness, and stops in the center of the unit. Children laugh just over the hills as school is let out, Auld Lang Syne's sweet melody just kissing his ears before winding down into silence. Tomorrow morning, the bells will call the children again.

Ryu tears open a box. Nothing there but silverware. Another box. Clothes. He kicks that aside and seizes a third. It is brimming with preservative-rich snack foods. Useful, but not what he is looking for.

Grabbing a sponge cake, Ryu dives into a fourth box, then a fifth. The ninth box bears fruit. Twinkie lying untouched in his lap, he lifts out the photo frame. Armonia squints at the face, humming as the Ryu clears away the grime. Ryu too allows himself a small joy in a minute smile and sets the frame aside. He digs and digs and then—

Even under layers of dust and dirt it glitters and sparkles. So like its original owner.

"What's that?" Armonia grunts. He examines the item from every angle, glancing back and forth between it and Ryu. "What is its significance?"

(It had been so easy to lose yourself in him, in thoughts of him, in their war, he would so easily become other people and other people would become him, he had to have been a creature, an entity more terrible and mysterious and ethereal than a Shinigami)

"Nothing," Ryu says and he slips it on, the bracelet as silent and gray as a grave, shoves his hands into his pockets, locks up the unit, and shuffles off. Readjusting the bicycle helmet, he hunches his shoulders as he strolls away from the lot. It would not do for Ryu Ryuugu to be recognized out and about when the outdoors is known hikikomori-repellant.

For the hundredth time that day, he pats the front of his shirt for that flat plane the mere touch of which puts to rest the dread mushrooming in the pit of his stomach. He cannot ever let go of it, not unless he wishes to cease to exist. To think there would ever be a day where such a fear were at the forefront of his mind. Armonia chuckles.

"Well?" he asks. "What will you do now?"

Ryu stands on a hill and thinks of the city. Crowds and noise and bustle are his nails on a chalkboard, his too-loud mastication. But it has been too long since he's seen the rainbows of candy shops and smelled the fragrance of a bakery. With no manservants or errand boys to command, he must fetch provisions himself. And so he goes.

 **1=1=1=1**

Once again, the barista has made the coffee too hot. The heat feels good on Soichiro's old bones but if he or anyone else were to drink it there goes a perfectly good colkectiin of taste buds. He grumbles as he plods over to his office, cups in hand. He will give her a stronger warning next tume, again. Young people just need reminders here and there. He remembers how Matsuda once was—still is.

Soichiro is not a genius. He is no computer whiz. Such is how he got locked out of his work email seven times in the past three months. On top of that he has forgotten the new password to his work computer. It cannot all be blamed on his technology allergy. He barely remembered Matsuda' coffee just now.

There is one thing Soichiro knows for sure, however, and that is that he did not leave the door to his office ajar.

"Matsuda?" he asks. Approaching slowly, cautious towards the silence that follows and the two hot beverages in his hands, Deputy Director Soichiro Yagami nudges on the light with his elbow.

A small boy looks up from behind his desk, squinting through the office lighting at Soichiro's face. Fear and melancholy moisten his big, black eyes and he hugs himself. Soichiro feels his rib cage constrict upon itself.

Then all trace of trepidation vanish and those eyes widen, just by a fraction, and then he gets this real thoughtful look on his face and Soichiro can see wheels and cogs turning behind those black eyes the revolutions of which he knows he does not quite understand but knows enough that they are quite important, too important for him.

Soichiro feels he might choke on his own heart.

"Are you lost?" he asks kindly, setting the drinks atop the cabinet. "I know there aren't many people here at the moment but if you were looking for help, I am here."

The boy says nothing, only scans his desk. Soichiro is there by the child's side in three strides, pointedly ignoring his opened desk drawer. His family stares serenely out of photo frames. The boy stares back.

"That's my daughter," he says, pointing to the dark-haired pony-tailed girl. "She works for a magazine. And that's my wife. Retired."

The child's eyes dart to the right. "And him?"

Soichiro, momentarily taken aback by the boy's monotone, a forcefully dulled edge of a knife, finds his voice. "That is my son. Was my son."

A silence the length and temperature of a nuclear winter follows. "What happened to him?"

Soichiro has been wondering just that for the past ten years. "Kira got him." A truth, of sorts.

"Yes, of course," the little boy murmurs. He taps his small fingers on the desk.

"Where are your parents?" Soichiro asks, pushing the drawer closed. The boy's eyes narrow by a fraction but he says nothing.

"I used to have parents," he finally says.

Immediately Soichiro's fatherly instincts kick in. "What happened?" he demands.

The boy shrugs. "They saw their child was smart and they put him on a pedestal." He plays with a bit of paper. "And then they assumed everything was okay or they wanted it to be okay. And their child knew that everything had to be okay, and so it was that way."

The man blinks hard as if he has been slapped.

Is that what happened?

"So here I am," the boy continues, waving a hand to his surroundings. "Scrounging up whatever I can. Sniffing around dark corners. Reduced to—" He motions to his...clothes or perhaps his shoulders. "—this."

Soichiro shakes his head. Little boys should not speak in such ways. "Come on," he says firmly. He gently takes the boy by his shoulder.

The boy glances at the drawer, shrugs, shoulders his rabbit backpack, and hops off of the chair. Enter Sanami, breathless and livid.

"There you are!" she cries as she rushes over to the boy, heels impacting the floor hard enough to crack the tiles. "I told you not to move!" To Soichiro she intones, "I saw him in the evidence locker. Thinks he's quite the joker. Introduced himself as a 'Mr. Wright.'" She ushers the smirking little boy out of the office. Soichiro stares after them awhile, rubs his temples and goes for the coffees.

He happens to glance at his computer before it goes to sleep, right before the opened file on the First Church of Kira fades to black.

 **1=1=1=1**

Ryu is enjoying a donut when he feels the points of someone's glower on his nape. He turns, like a flower unfurling. Armonia snickers.

A little boy in a rabbit backpack, in the midst of pushing something into a postbox, has stopped mailing his package just to run his eyes from Ryu's head to Ryu's toes. That look of his...

Nasty.

Glower fixed on the man's drooping eyelids, sandals, and crumb-covered mouth, the child lets his package slide down the chute. He jiggles the handle, fixes his shirt, and creeps over to him. Ryu watches, amused. Children can be entertaining when they are not drooling or screaming or barfing.

"Gross," the boy declares, literally turning up his nose at Ryu as he tilts his head back, as if the only sensible way to perceive Ryu is if one's eye is situated as far away from the sight of this being as possible. Ryu grins. Obnoxious, but still entertaining. Armonia chuckles.

"A fitting form for a fiendish creature," chortles the Shinigami.

"Excuse me?" he asks, cupping a hand around his ear as he leans in as close as he can without arousing suspicion from passerby. "I didn't catch that."

The boy looks as though he is seriously considering kicking the man in the shins. Instead, he cocks his head as his eyes dart back and forth over the older man's form. "Infuriating," he murmurs, "but what did I expect?"

Ryu blinks. The child smiles. If Ryu squints, he thinks he might see a hint of fangs.

"You are a foreigner, after all," sniffs the boy.

Ryu has to scratch his head at that. As far as he knows, he looks one-hundred-and-ten percent Japanese. "Am I?" he asks, making sure to inject a playful lilt and to spark off a mischievous twinkling in his eye.

The tiny boy's jaw tightens and the canines lengthen. Got him. "Yeah. A real alien. Don't think I quite caught your name, sir," he says, tone saccharine.

This boy thinks him stupid. The very last thing Ryu needs is his house getting TPed, thank you.

Hey. Ask a stupid question...

"You can't catch names," Ryu says seriously, stuffing as much condescension in his tone as possible as he squats down to get on eye level with the boy. "They're intangible concepts. Though they do say," he adds, looking pointedly at the child, "that even idiots can catch a cold."

Armonia howls with gleeful laughter.

The boy is...yes, he is vibrating with anger. Beneath his expressionless exterior, Ryu crows. But any humor to be found in the vibrations are short-lived. At the sound of a panicked voice growing sharper and clearer above the crowds, the boy stills.

"Damn it, Rabbit, stop running away!"

"'Rabbit'?" Ryu jeers. He circles the pad of his finger over his lips, rolling his eyes up to the rose-gold sky. "I think I will opt to call you 'Bunny.'"

Rabbit shakes again. Ryu goes in for the kill.

"You are but a baby, after all."

The child hesitates for but a second. Then his leg shoots out, his shoe stamping on Ryu's naked toes. As the man flinches, Rabbit launches forward. He grabs a fistful of Ryu's shirt and pulls him down.

"Pervert!" Rabbit squeals from beneath Ryu's fallen body. "Get off of me! Gevanni, help!"

It is difficult to "get off," however, when another is on top of you, punching and grunting and simply being a right nuisance. Gevanni has quite a bit of power in his fists but he is much too polite for a street brawler, except perhaps for the part where he apparently has no qualms with grabbing his opponent's rear end. Ryu is not so polite.

"Oof!" The man doubles over, clutching below his belt. Ryu gets into stance.

"Now who's the pervert?" he mutters.

"Still you," snaps Rabbit, shifting his backpack to his right shoulder as he attempts to steady Gevanni. "Go away before we call the police!"

Ryu weighs his options. He is not pleased with losing his donut during the scuffle but he cannot say he is too invested in this battle especially when the guy he is facing off with clearly cannot fight his way out of a paper bag. Shrugging, Ryu turns away and slouches down the road. He has personal business to attend to anyway.

"Laughter _is_ infectious," Armonia wheezes. After successfully curing himself of his giggle fit, he gasps as he eyes Ryu up and down, "I see what he means now."

Ryu boards the bus, only half paying attention to Armonia's prattle.

"Humans _are_ a riot."

 **1=1=1=1**

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXX**

•Should any the original rules be misplaced or destroyed, it falls to the highest ranking Shinigami to restore or rewrite them.

•For this reason, it is required of the highest ranked Shinigami to remember the rules offhand.

 **1=1=1=1**

 **Author Notes:**

Making up How to Read rules is hard because I don't want any of them to conflict with later stuff so I have to be as non-specific as possible but still have it be relevant to the Death Note lol.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **TW's:** depictions of body mutilation

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

Hikaru Tsukuyomi lifts his head from off the floor, his nose numb from the pressure of pressing it to the floor. Knees throbbing, palms smarting, he glares at the watchful pillar. "Is this really necessary?"

Silence, then a snicker. "No," Nu admits, "I just thought it would look funny."

Hikaru scowls, then snatches the Note from the altar. It takes everything Nu has to not howl with laughter. Come on. The human could not be so devoid of a sense of humor. The image of anyone bending over themself in reverence of a book is hilarious if you ask Nu.

No one is asking Nu, least of all Hikaru, who briskly crosses the room to his window. With the construction of their church nearing its end, all he can do is wait. Their squeaky clean image need not be tainted by his judgments. He can ease into that later.

A knock comes at his door. Hikaru opens it to find Brother Ichiro on bent knee. Hikaru beckons to him, bidding him to rise to his feet. "Ascended Brother Hikaru," he says breathlessly, "I am to bring you to the altar."

"Excellent," murmurs Hikaru, offering his hand. Gasping softly, Ichiro takes it and leads him away.

The sacred structure had miraculously been given clearance by the city a year ago. Hikaru remembers the disbelief and joy of that day as clearly as he does the riots. He remembers thinking that he would never feel such happiness ever again and holding on so desperately to that feeling.

Oh how priorities can change in a matter of seconds. Now he sees a dull arrangement of bricks and glass. That prideful swelling in his chest is present no longer. Names and characters and kanji dance about in his head. The pump beneath his breast is arctic stone. All he sees is that beautiful line drawn to a horizon alight with dawn.

It will be a better world with him at the helm.

By his ear, Nu giggles at the rows of prone figures lined up along the halls. Humans will press their noses to the grounds for anything and bow their heads to any concept.

Head raised, Hikaru strides down the hall, the fingers of his brethren grazing the hem of his robes as they reach under the guise of clasping their hands in prayer. Hikaru allows it, for now. He is a merciful god.

High Priest Hitoshi awaits him at the altar, holding a glass vial of red chrism. "Ascended Brother Hikaru."

Hikaru wonders about revealing himself now, but decides against it. Let them perform their silly ceremony. Whatever will further their belief in them will be to his advantage.

"The blood of criminals," the high priest chants as he annoints Hikaru's forehead, "shall birth our Lord, our Savior, Kira."

"I accept the blood of criminals upon my brow," answers Hikaru with utmost sobriety. "Through my body, Kira shall be reborn into the new world."

Over Hikaru's mouth, the high priest smears another fluid. "The bitter water shed by the weak, the wronged, the broken shall burgeon in you a taste for justness."

"I accept the sorrows of the people upon my tongue," returns Hikaru. "With that tongue, I will speak in honor of their memory, and carve their names in the earth of the new world."

Hitoshi draws out the bodkin. Hikaru purses his lips but does not move away, trembling and swallowing. The high priest moves like lightning, slashing at Hikaru's collar bone. Flinching, he draws back as a ruby bead rolls down from the cut. Hitoshi collects it in a separate vial.

"Your flesh shall feed the enfeebled, shall nurture His Devotees."

"I sacrifice my flesh," Hikaru responds, all warmth ebbing from his gaze, "for the nourishment of the new world."

The high priest raises his arms. "Our Ascended Brother has transformed into a Grand Vessel for Our Lord, Our Savior—"

"That is quite enough," Hikaru interrupts, tone sinking its teeth in the man's throat. "I have humored you long enough already." He turns abruptly to the gathering.

"Why would you do this?" he seethes at the congregation. "A church in the middle of Tokyo? How is it you expect me to pass judgment in these conditions without the authorities breathing down my neck?"

Blank stares are exchanged. Whispers pass like a stormy ocean wave throughout the throng.

"Now, Vessel Hikaru—" starts the high priest. Hikaru silences him with but a look.

"You dare speak to me so casually," laughs the youth softly as he approaches the old man, "after harming me?

"Me? The resurrected god of the new world?"

 **1=1=1=1**

Ryu is just wrapping up putting the finishing touches on his personal business when his mother calls to him. The cutest little boy is at the door, she gushes. He says he has found something of yours, she coos.

Rabbit strides in as if he owns the place, throwing and catching an apple in one hand. In the other... "Hey," he says casually, handing Ryu his cigarette-butt-and-dirt-encrusted donut. "You dropped this."

Ryu raises an eyebrow, an action he has rarely if ever performed. He knows someone had been a pervert back there, and it certainly had not been him. "Or someone has sticky fingers."

"No," Rabbit replies, wandering over to the refrigerator, "pretty sure you dropped it."

"Whatever the case," Ryu shoots back in a tone that says he is gradually warming to the idea of eviscerating a child, "you need to leave."

"Do I?" demands Rabbit, taking out a plate of tiramisu and settling down with it at the table. Mama Ryuugu beams and gets to brewing tea.

"Yes." Ryu watches as Rabbit shears off an achingly tiny sliver from his slice and daintily brings it to his mouth. Ryu half expects the heart-shaped lips to pull back and reveal a pair of buck teeth as he nibbles his atom-sized forkful. "Leave."

"Hmmm," Rabbit murmurs, tapping the tines against his mouth. "No." And he loads his fork with a quantity of cake better suited for an ant than a human of any size.

Ryu turns on his heel and marches back to his room. His ears perk at the gravelly voice wafting in from the kitchen. "Armonia? I'm over here."

Armonia drifts through the wall, looking as sheepish as a jeweled skeleton can be. "Thought you were still with us," he explains hastily. So even Shinigami get embarrassed.

Ryu steps into his room, eyes drawn to the blinking icon in his inbox. His news alert has borne fruit. Kira's silly little devotees have almost completed construction on their place of worship. Ryu chews a fingernail. The fact that a self-important murderer like Kira has sustained a following after all this time is, if you ask him, sad.

He wonders how they would feel if they ever found out that the god of their new world had been a prissy teenager.

First he opens the message from Near. He stops reading halfway through the first sentence. The wording is wrong, the vocabulary is unusual, and the requests out of character. He checks the message source and narrows his eyes. Sloppy.

As he pores over the links, tip-offs from secret agents and hidden sources, and confidential documents that may or may not be stolen, he is dimly aware of a small someone in the doorway.

"Go away," Ryu deadpans, banishing the materials from his screens. When he receives no response, he turns his head slightly. Rabbit is staring at his _butsudan_.

"Something wrong, Bunny?" Ryu asks. The altar is a bit unorthodox and it is missing several important components and _butsugu,_ but Rabbit is in no position to be critical of the strange and unusual. The little boy approaches much to Ryu's apprehension.

"Be careful," he warns as the child reaches for the photograph held within. Rabbit observes it with thin lips and blank eyes.

"You aren't supposed to put photos in here," he sniffs, turning over the frame. "Was he your grandfather?"

"No," Ryu replies quietly.

Rabbit puts it back and gazes at the other items. His gaze magnetizes to one of the shinier ornaments on the shelf and stays there. "Where did you get that?" he asks softly.

The reply is stiff, rigid with cold. "A friend."

Rabbit makes a strange, sharp sound, like a cross between a bark and a squeal. His shoulders tremble, and he doubles over while holding his belly. In silence, he shakes, huffing and wheezing and sucking in and expelling air until his entire tiny body rolls and ripples with laughter. Ryu observes without a sound, scanning the scene so he may look it over later.

That tone, that stance, that response—madness and composure shoved into one compact being. A monster, a clever little monster shaped out of suffering and utter entitlement with a pinch of pettiness huffs and puffs from sheer amusement. Only the old man in that photograph could have molded such a child.

Ryu feels the point of the knife dig into his gut, and twist. He throws it away and keeps walking. He does not look back. He never has.

"Sorry," Rabbit pants. He straightens his back. "Just the thought of you, having friends." Shrugging, he smiles an empty little boy smile. "It's good for a laugh."

This child is a walking reminder of failures and despairs past. Ryu can barely stand to look at him. He glances away. "I believe it may be time to call your guardian."

He wanders back over to the computer. He hears nothing from the child. "Did you hear me, Bunny? It's time you left."

Ryu turns back towards Rabbit and does a double-take. Gone is the twisted face. The sneer has morphed into a sorrowful, wobbly pout. A glaze coats his big, wide doll eyes.

"Mama?" the boy wonders aloud in a tremulous mumble. "Where's my mama?"

His index finger poised over the space bar, Ryu's breath hitches. His heart beats to the chime of the longcase clock in the hall. No good can come of this human evocation of the past. Nothing good about memories. Nothing good about nightmares.

As the boy holds and rocks himself, Ryu can see the cognition in his eyes return, the breathing settle. With only his front teeth Ryu just about whittles his fingernail down to the cuticle.

Rabbit stops rocking. "Very well," he drawls. "I'll give Gevanni a ring."

The moment the boy steps foot outside of Ryu's bedroom, he shuts the door. As he nibbles a finger, he looks past the wood to a world he left behind.

Armonia emits a sawdust chuckle, a creaky door hinge giggle. "What will you do now?" he asks.

Ryu is back at his computer in a matter of seconds. The child's face fresh in his mind, he descends upon news articles and archives.

"What will you do now," Armonia wonders aloud, "L Lawliet?"

 **1=1=1=1**

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXXI**

• Although the rules and the workings of the note can be limited by such concepts especially when applied to the Human World, the Death Note itself is not confined to the conventions of time and space.

• As such, its properties may be altered but only by a high-ranking Shinigami. Of these properties, the Shinigami in question may choose to change its color, page limit, residual memories, etc.

 **1=1=1=1**

 **Author Notes:**

Some of you might have already guessed The Twist but I don't give a fffffffffff read and review!


	8. Chapter 8

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

Rabbit immediately shuts himself in his room upon his return. Near does not question it. Whatever gets him out of his way. He does not need another distraction. Rester is doing that quite enough all on his own.

"Where did I put it?" he grumbles, patting down his pants.

Agent Lidner raises her head from her dossier. "Trouble?"

"My friggin' gun," he muttered. "Know I had it here this morning."

"For Pete's sake," Lidner sighs. "Agent Rester, there is a child on the premises."

Rester sheepish scratches the nape of his neck. "We gave him that little tool kit and he hasn't hurt anyone."

"Yet," Gevanni adds in undertone.

Near is only half-listening, of course. He has a skyscraper of jacks to build and a case to solve. Three missing notebooks...

Why three? Near finds it hard to believe that the Shinigami had wanted those three in particular. As near as they can tell, the Notes are connected on some sort of fantastic, chimerical network beyond human comprehension.

Three Notes stolen.

Near curls a tress around his pinkie, stacking his skyscraper. He remembers tall buildings like these in London.

London. The Leadenhall. Near adds another jack. The Lloyd's building. Near lets the curl unravel. Structures that tear the heavens, he admires them so. Perhaps that is why the Shinigami want to play so badly with humans— petty revenge. Vengeance from the celestials.

No, he does not believe that. Even though Shinigami are real, vengeful gods are not. He knew this when he reviewed the Kira case, he knew it then when he first laid eyes on St. Paul's Cathedral.

Cathedral. Church.

Three Notes stolen.

Near, at a snail's pace, drags his laptop over to him, opens it, and types away. Six hours later, he raises his head.

Ah. Ah hah.

"The Shinigami are playing a game," Near states calmly. Lidner, Gevanni, and Rester turn to him as if they have forgotten that he has ever existed. "One of those players is Eraldo." This much has been obvious to him. For no other reason would a Shinigami bother to communicate with a human unless Eraldo was lying which is...also a possibility but unlikely as it would throw too much unnecessary suspicion and attention on him. Near wonders not for the last time what had convinced the agents of Interpol to not dwell on this crucial piece of information.

Money, most likely.

Near adds a jack to his edifice. "The other is a member of the First Church of Kira."

"Oh?" Agent Lidner prods.

"The NPA has been monitoring the First Church of Kira closely due to its connection with pro-Kira terrorist groups. If the Shinigami are going to elect a candidate for their little game, there is a very good chance one of the Church's members could be involved. In the past twenty-four hours, the First Church of Kira announced its christening of a new head priest. They will not say who it is, but signs point to it being Hikaru Tsukuyomi, the son of this sect's founder."

"How do you figure?" asks Rester.

"His son was in a coma for a week due to a head injury," Near explains. "He was released yesterday. In the past twenty-four hours the Church suddenly decided it would open its doors and assign a new head priest despite construction still being unfinished.

"Also," Near states, stacking another jack, "I infiltrated their 'secret' forums. It was easy enough to find if you follow the trail of social media accounts. Some of them even use their real names, the idiots. Guess they figure they aren't in any danger if they worship him. They talk in easily-cracked code. 'Hikaru Tsukuyomi is our new god' is the phrase of the day. I also cannot find a trace of his face in any image search. And on top of that..."

Near twists another lock of hair around his index. "It would seem that they got it in their head that Hikaru is the reincarnation of the original Kira."

Gevanni rolls his eyes. Rester snorts. Lidner shakes her head.

"Not too bright, are they?" Lidner grunts, returning to her dossier.

"Every shyster in Tokyo has been claiming to be 'the original Kira' since his death but none of them ever seem to recall their own name," grumbles Rester. "'Once dead, they can never come back to life.'"

"Yes," Near agrees. "That is what the notebooks say."

He, however, says nothing more, and returns to silent construction but not before catching a toy racecar with his foot. The foam bullets in its attached dart gun launch, but just miss the base of his skyscraper.

"It is not nice to eavesdrop," Near chastises blandly as he sets it back on the ground.

The racecar revs at him, turns away in a huff, and speeds off. Near watches it leave and flips his laptop open. He has an e-mail to shoot Roger.

 **1=1=1=1**

For a week, Hikaru lives the life he should have had for the longest time. Beautiful people throw themselves at him like never before. Access to all of the data and information he could ever want is his with but a word. The world is his oyster and he is its shiniest, most divine pearl.

Except for Nu.

"Kill some people," she whines. "I wanna see some blood already! If you're really Light, live up to your name. Ryuk said you were fun!"

"Quiet," he dismisses, crawling through the church's server. Names, names, and more names! He leans in closer, forehead pressing up against the screen. Faces and criminal records and witness testimonies. All of it conveniently filed away in digital folders. His fingers ache for the polished finish of pencil or the smooth glide of ink flowing from ballpoint over white leaves. He feels a twitch in his wrist, and he reaches.

He draws back. Has he made a mistake in the past week? Has he sealed his fate without his knowing? Is he doomed?

There is no turning back now. None. From the moment he wrote down his first name, he only craves more. This is the power of the Note. This feeling surely is the call of Justice.

A robed man drifts into the room, his room, holding a laptop and looking like death. Sweat covers his pale brow and his hair is lank and oily. Hikaru narrows his eyes.

"Who are you?" he asks coldly, hand skimming the surface of his Note as men caress new lovers. "I want your name now." Gods are not to be disturbed.

The webcam light blinks on. Hikaru jerks away as if he has been slapped. A voice of the highest most unearthly pitch emanates from the laptop speaker.

"Hikaru Tsukuyomi," the voice states, "I believe you are in danger."

"That's you," sneers Hikaru. " _You're_ in danger. I need not fear anyone anymore."

"There is another notebook user," warns the voice. "He will most likely attempt to take your Note from you by force."

"I have an entire congregation willing to lay down its life for me," Hikaru dismisses, but his complexion has noticeably lightened half a dozen shades in under a second.

"It is a pity, then, that they have already betrayed you. You have taken great pains to hide your name and face from the public. All for nothing."

"Is that right?" he returns in a mocking tone, but he has risen from his bed with balled fists. "Then kill me if you can," he challenges, voice rising in pitch as it trembles in his throat.

Softly, like dove's down, laughter floats out from the speakers. "As far as I'm concerned, Hikaru, you are already dead."

Hikaru is silent. Then, he crosses over to his bedroom door.

"Oh?" mocks the voice in a murmur. "Where are you going?"

Hikaru closes the door. The man holding the laptop crumples to the floor.

 **1=1=1=1**

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXXII**

•Residual memories may be transferred to any note at any time. Should the Shinigami take too long to retrieve the memories or if said memories prove to be too traumatic to recover, these memories may degrade or become corrupt.

•Those in possession of said altered notebook must be in contact with the Note at all times if they wish to keep their memories.

•If they are to lose contact with the notebook at any time, they will lose their memories. Said memories are easily retrieved if contact is re-established.

 **1=1=1=1**

 **Author Notes:**

Next chapter is the last chapter, so yeah.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Kyrie for the New World**

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Death Note. I make no profit off of this work of fiction. However, I do not give permission for anyone to take this body of work and claim it as their own.

 **Summary** : Movieverse. On the battered spine of an old friend is written a prayer for man. Touch it and sing its hymn, for the Madeleine of memories loosens the tongue with its bitter sapor. A detective game begins anew. T for bad language, some violence.

 **TW's:** This is where the violence comes in so watch out for that. And there's a rude word, too.

 **CHAPTER NINE**

 **1=1=1=1**

 **DEATH NOTE**

 **HOW TO USE IT**

 **LXXIII**

•Residual memories may be transferred to any note at any time. Should the Shinigami take too long to retrieve the memories or if said memories prove to be too traumatic to recover, these memories may degrade or become corrupt.

 **1=1=1=1**

Soichiro is in the middle of an important phone call when Sanami comes rushing in. "It's gone," she states, hair in disarray.

As he turns down NHN news, Soichiro holds up a hand, listening for the line to pick up. Sanami shakes her head. "This is a key piece of evidence, Ch— Deputy Director."

Touta Matsuda sticks his head into the office. "Problem?"

"A key piece of evidence from that burglary case is missing," Sanami moans, dragging her fingers down her face. "I know I locked it up!"

"Hello?" Soichiro gruffs into the handset. "I would like to report a missing child— yes. He's about nine, ten."

"Which burglary case?" Matsuda asks, scrunching up his nose. "Oh! The one with—"

"The heat vision goggles, yes. It wasn't signed out so it had to have been stolen but the surveillance footage from that day is gone too so I can't—"

"He was last seen with a dark-haired man. Foreigner. Five foot ten."

Matsuda's eyes are saucers, now that everything is sinking in. "Oh, wow, Sanami. What are you going to do?"

"Last seen at— yes, I will hold." Soichiro gives Sanami a stern look. She covers her face as Matsuda gives her a consoling pat on the back.

"Don't worry so much," Matsuda is in the middle of saying when the phones begin to ring off the hook. He freezes, eyes even more saucer-like than before.

Soichiro makes a fist around the receiver. The last time the phones rang like that...

Outside the headquarters, a scream rasps the tensing atmosphere. A man races through the street, yelling at the top of his lungs— "He's here! He's here!"

Sanami picks up, desperate for even the tiniest bit of normalcy in an increasingly abnormal situation. "NPA headquarters," she greets just as the "Breaking News!" graphic flashes across the television screen. Matsuda, blinking slowly, reluctantly reaches over and turns up the volume.

"This is NHN's Miho Sato," states the newscaster, "and I'm coming to you live from the First Church of Kira."

The camera pans over the crowds clustered around the church's steps. Many are holding signs. Some are brawling. A good portion of them are screaming at one another. Soichiro has gone numb. He has forgotten about the phone in his hand.

"We're here mere moments after the church's new leader issued a startling proclamation."

At the top of the church is a bell tower. There stands a handsome youth, quiet, small, and all too composed. The camera zooms in.

"That's right," he calls down to his people. "I am Light Yagami. Your beloved god, Kira, has returned."

Soichiro Yagami drops the phone, as much as one can drop something that they are barely holding onto in the first place.

Hikaru speaks at the camera more than he does to it, eyes looking past the camera lens. "If you have any misgivings as to the veracity of my identity, check the status of Reiji Hirose, who only received six months for the murder of an innocent in April of last year. Only three people knew of his name, and now all of you know it.

"Now onto business. The anti-Kira judge Kenichi Mikuriya will die in one hour should the current L refuse to show his face on national TV. And I _will_ know if that person is L."

Despite the screeching pleas for more details, more judgment, some acknowledgment towards his followers from down below, Hikaru falls silent.

Soichiro finds that he has deposited himself into a seat. "Light," he murmurs, holding his head in his hands. Matsuda and Sanami watch for a wordless moment before springing into action, Matsuda putting people on Mikuriya and Sanami rounding up people for crowd control.

Soichiro removes his face from his hands once they leave his office, and completes his phone call. One thing at a time.

 **1=1=1=1**

Near curls and twirls his hair, going over with a fine-toothed comb this afternoon's happenings. A lot has happened.

A lot.

Light Yagami's file had been sparse, the last time Near had a look. Boy has a squeaky-clean record. Boy is bored with world. Boy kills. Boy attempts to kill his father and the task force that set out to bring him to justice. Boy is killed by a God of Death. Case open. Case shut.

Near has a hard time believing this is Light Yagami. He has a hard time thinking, too. The headquarters is empty except for him. Not that he has planned this. If it were up to him, he would have his people here with the First Church crisis going on. However, a tip-off mere hours before the Hikaru Tsukuyomi incident and the church crisis itself has driven most of the SPK out of the building.

And now the internet is not working. Near closes his laptop. He has read all that he has needed to read of the file Roger sent, anyway. The news is so loud, so hectic. It is all pomp, honestly, so Near shuts it off.

This Kira, he likes chaos. And Near does not speak of Hikaru Tsukuyomi. He has seen his grades. It is possible that if he were Light, he would not want to draw attention to himself and so would sabotage his academic pursuits on purpose, but not plausible. Light Yagami is a perfectionist— was a perfectionist.

Near sits, stewing in thoughts and theories, brain marinating in a bath of critical analysis and a drop of fantasy.

No. Dead people stay dead, even in a world where Shinigami and killer notebooks are real.

Near hates to admit it, but he could use another head. Too much of this makes no sense.

Perhaps, he muses, it is supposed to not make any sense. He dispels the notion with a slight shake of his head. He definitely needs another perspective on this. Near shuffles down the hall to the door standing ajar. Gently, he nudges it open.

Rabbit's room is expansive to the point of overkill, but the boy had insisted on these quarters. Its dimensions rival that of a small train station, if that station were covered in long, red curtains and were lined from end to end in playing cards the size of an adult man. Queens, kings, and knaves form many a twisty, snakey corridor. The labyrinth must take up almost the entirety of the room, Near surmises. So this is what he has been doing with his time.

"Rabbit," Near calls. "Rabbit, there has been an incident."

Near waits for a response. Wheeling his head around, he thinks he catches a faint strain of a soft giggle.

"This is not the time for games," Near says. R should know this. Wammy's star student is too much of a child to even be considered in the running for the title of L. He will be sure to confer with Roger once this case is wrapped up.

A soft, whispery voice splits the thick air. "Tick."

Near refuses to sigh. With one finger among his tangles, he presses his right hand to the wall and ventures in.

"Tock."

A creature cloaked in darkness rushes past Near's feet. It twitches its nose at him before loping deeper into the maze.

"Tick."

It is not much of a puzzle. Near reaches the end in less than ten minutes. Disappointment and relief clash. On one hand, he expects more from the boy who has wiped the floor with his genius peers, the very first out of a class of six hundred prodigies. On the other hand, the situation with the First Church demands his attention, and—

So that is where his laptop went.

"Tock."

Just beyond the laptop is another labyrinth. Near is about to pick up his machine and explore when the computer decides to speak with a throat of chrome and a tongue of rust. The clock display on the monitor is minimized. A letter R rendered in Cloister Black font flickers onto the screen. "Hello, Near."

"Rabbit," returns Near without so much of a waver in his voice. He peers through the blue-gray haze, watching the room for any sign of a black fringe or a toy dart gun. Neither things are anywhere in sight.

A hushed laugh bubbles up from the computer speaker. It is and is not R's voice. "You never answered my question. From before."

Near is very aware of his hackles rising.

"'Do you know how it feels to get shot?'"

The whirr of a racecar chimes in behind him. Near turns when he should run. The crack of gunfire resounds. He falls.

A cold, crisp voice crackles from the speakers. "It really hurts."

 **1=1=1=1**

Hikaru Tsukuyomi stands upon the church's bell tower, flanked by his brainless lackeys. All life and vigor has fled his face. His skin does not glow as it does in the photographs procured by a certain conman, the silk quality of his voice is more like polyester.

"I am Light Yagami. Your beloved god, Kira, has returned."

L nibbles his knuckle. Lies, all of them. It is the one thing that this Hikaru has in common with the boy "god" because he is, without a shadow of a doubt, not very smart.

The Light Yagami he knew would not operate out in the open. The Light Yagami he knew would work in the shadows until he absolutely, positively had to come out to play.

The scene is conveyed across the five displays at his desk. Monitor one's visuals center entirely on NHN news' helicopter view of Hikaru. Monitor two is dedicated to NKK's live footage of the Kenichi Mikuriya hostage crisis. Monitor's three, four, and five showcase interviews, frantic conversations occurring across social media, and live feed of the situation directly outside of the church.

"Light Yagami?" wonders one Twitter account. "Junior tennis champion Light Yagami?"

"Didn't he disappear halfway into my first semester at To-Oh?" muses another.

The identity of the original Kira has been, up until now, a well-guarded secret. Hikaru Tsukuyomi cannot be Light Yagami. L knows this is no Light Yagami. And yet, he knows the identity of the original Kira, and spills willingly his name from his lips.

Exhibit A of Hikaru's lack of intelligence?

Or is it a distraction?

L grasps at his wrist. Nothing there. Right. He should put it on. It always used to help him think.

"If you were here we would have wrapped this up by now," L mutters from the side of his mouth. Light does not answer. His vocal chords have long turned to dust, his body rotten and skull empty.

He shifts around in his seat. Something bothersome has been in his back pocket for a while now, but he has been too lost in this case to remember to check it. Now, he slips a hand into the pocket. Probably some hard candy or a lollipop stick, certainly nothing—

A tracker.

L's eye wanders to the far reaches of his vision to the _butsudan_. His brain chugs, processing. L turns his head, scrutinizing, examining, deducing.

Something here is missing. He turns over every stone in his head. The altar. Something about the altar...

His eyes widen. The watch is gone.

In its place is a shiny red apple.

 **1=1=1=1**

A pair of small hands sets down the remote control. A moment later, a smooth voice wafts in from the shadows of the maze. The childish lilt has been stripped from it.

"The lonely Old Man of the Moon looked down upon the Earth and thought to himself, 'Which of these creatures is the kindest?'"

From a pocket, the hands retrieve a bracelet of silver and cracked glass.

"So he descended to Earth and tested Fox, Monkey, and Rabbit, disguised as a beggar. 'Help me. I am _near_ death. I am starved. Won't you please help feed this withered mouth?'"

Two small black shoes tap on the black-and-white tiles as they move past jokers and aces.

"So. Monkey climbed a tree to gather sweet fruits. Fox snapped up a fish from the river. And Rabbit? Rabbit could find nothing because Rabbit was powerless. Always powerless."

The hands pull on white plastic gloves.

"But Rabbit had an idea. 'Monkey,' he said, 'please fetch some driftwood. Fox, build a fire.' And it was done. Soon after, Rabbit threw his body upon the fire. For what is a little sacrifice for the good of the world?"

The hands unzip a backpack and pull out a portable tool set.

"The Old Man of the Moon retrieved Rabbit from the flames. 'That will not be necessary,' said he. All of the creatures had shown true kindness. But it was Rabbit who had outshined the rest."

A hand encircled with a wristwatch emerges from the darkness of the labyrinth.

"The Old Man of the Moon sang Rabbit's praises and carried him back home with him to live forever in lunar paradise."

Rabbit steps out of the maze entirely. The faint glow from the laptop grants him the barest of outlines against the darkness. His dark bangs are now swept to the side. The puppy fat of his face seems to have been bled out of him. A black notebook is clutched to his chest. A tall dark shadow seems to flicker behind him. When Near blinks, it is gone.

R strides over to him. Near's eyes dart back and forth over his face. Panic edges into his gaze as R settles down on top of N's stomach.

Rabbit's little smile spreads slow like blood and syrup. He sets down the kit on Near's chest and opens it up. Near's eyes narrow until R is not quite sure if the detective has fallen asleep on him. The boy slaps his cheek twice, grinning a childish simper that borders on manic.

Near jerks back. He eyes R with all of the frost of Siberia. He has read over this boy's profile two separate times. Back then, he simply had not recognized that they had been one and the same, or that they could be. But Near sees it in the dead eyes, and the pieces are clicking together and, sure, the proclamation of one Hikaru Tsukuyomi may be an influence in these most trying of moments.

"Light Yagami," he breathes.

"Near," nods the boy before bringing a small mallet down upon his head.

 **1=1=1=1**

It is easy enough to trace not-Near's last message to his base. It is easy to break in with the security disabled. It is easy to follow the screams. It is easy to navigate the maze. Easy, easy, easy.

L will not quite make it so easy for him.

The boy sits on Near's chest, aglow in the gentle light of the computer. His knees hiked up to his chest, his chin in one hand as he fiddles with a reddened wrench, he looks more like a child bored on his front stoop than a long-dead mass-murderer.

Near's leg twitches under him. Jaw set, L steps forward. Rabbit's head lifts.

No, not Rabbit.

"Light," L whispers.

The child's smile is too beatific, too elegant, to be a child's smile. "In the flesh. Well. Not my flesh." He motions to himself. "But, you know."

L takes another step. Light is on his feet, Note gripped in his small hands. "Not another step. I didn't lure you here to get chummy. I want your Note."

L raises his hands. "Let's not be so hasty. Let's catch up. Haven't you missed our stimulating conversation?"

Light rolls his eyes. "Oh yes, I simply loved talking politics with you in between you stuffing your face with cake and accusing me of being Kira."

"Not really an accusation so much as it was a statement of truth," L states, shifting his weight to his right leg.

"L," Light snaps, clicking his pen, "I'm telling you—"

"Relax," L murmurs, scratching at his ankle with his left foot. "Jumpy, aren't you?"

Light flips opens his Note. "Give it to me right now or I swear—"

"Or you'll kill me?" L jeers in monotone. "You couldn't the first time but hey, better luck now that you're inhabiting a body with the brain of a strategist. Question, though. Why didn't you kill me earlier? Surely you got a hold of my name after learning where I lived."

"I had your host's name," Light corrects, spinning his pen over his knuckles. "Now give it to me."

"You had my host's name," L echoes, wracking his brain. He puts his mouth on autopilot as he looks for an opening, his eyes on the pen. "But not my original name?"

The pen wobbles. Got him.

Casually, Light allows the pen to slide back into his grasp. "Who says I don't have your original name?"

" _I_ say, because I am alive and breathing enough to say so in the first place." L takes an experimental step towards him.

Light backs up, almost stumbling over Near's form. "Get back."

"You don't remember, do you?" L advances while Light fumbles around on the floor. "You don't remember my name, the name that ended you."

"You didn't end me!" roars Light as he retrieves the remote control. L turns just in time to see a toy racecar literally gunning for him. He would laugh, if not for the gun strapped to the car's hood. L dives out of the way just as it goes off, covering his head. He only looks up when he hears footsteps pounding away into the second card labyrinth. His eye catches the glint of a miniature hand saw as it disappears along with a miniature hand into the shadows. Exhaling, L disarms the toy and checks Near's pulse. Alive.

The WiFi is out but that does not affect Ryu Ryuugu's phone plan one bit. L contacts Roger anonymously and, trusting the old man to contact Near's task force, follows in hot pursuit of Light.

A whispery voice seems to echo from every corner of the maze as soon as L steps foot into it. "Of course you ruin everything. Always ruining everything for me."

L waves his hands out in front of him. He can barely see an inch before his nose. "I wouldn't have to come spank you if you would behave."

"If I had behaved back then, you would have had nothing."

"Are you suggesting," L snorts, "that you were my greatest case? That you were the epitome of all mysteries? That after tasting you, I would know no peace? Your ego really is something."

"It's the truth," Light says simply. "Gods of Death? Magic killer notebooks? An adversary whose intellect rivals, no, surpasses your own? What other case would satisfy your desire for stimulation?"

L has to stop waving his arms for that. "You describe it like it was some kind of comic book or thriller." L cocks his head. "Is that what you wanted, Light? AP classes weren't engaging enough for you?"

Light says not one word. Not good. L needs to keep him talking.

"How did Hikaru Tsukuyomi factor into this?" he asks. "That's lucky, even for you. The child of a cult leader whose photographs have been wiped from nearly every public record is gifted with a Note?"

"People in high places favor Kira," Light shrugs. "It's not so unthinkable that a high-ranking member of a group dedicated to Kira would be able to erase their Internet footprint effortlessly or be given a Note."

L hears the smile creep over his mouth. "But, yeah. Fortune does seem to favor me, doesn't it? Maybe that should tell you something, hmm? About my divine qualities and all that."

Light's voice drops back down into cold, flat tones. "Ryuk and the other Shinigami, they do their research now. They watch from above, they pick candidates. They want another me."

"But there is no other you," L says softly.

Light sounds as pleased as Punch. "Right," he says. "That's why I'm here. Why you're here."

"So you say. Anyway," L says, trying to sound very much as if this conversation is in danger of making him comatose, "you're wrong. You were not the best I ever had. In fact, just after you died, I solved another case."

He waits, holding his breath. Then he deals the finishing blow.

"It put me to sleep twice. It was still more engaging than you ever were."

There it is—that sharp intake of breath.

"Of course. You accuse me of being uncaring towards people and their lives but to you...to you these are just games. You can sit back with your little cameras and soundproof walls playing mission control. People are dying while you pick and choose who to help based on the level of entertainment they can provide." Light comes up for air before diving back into his own self-righteousness. "So don't you click your tongue at me. Don't you call _me_ a spoiled brat."

"The difference between you and I, Light Yagami," L responds silkily, "is that I _know_ I'm a spoiled brat."

Light rambles on, so wrapped up in himself that he fails to hear L's rejoinder. "You wouldn't know, couldn't know, the pain of dying."

L snorts, hand gliding along the wall. "I died of a heart attack. Same as you."

"No," Light insists. "Not the same. I was shot."

"Oh," L sneers, retort utterly saturated with insincerity. "That changes everything. Poor baby."

"Shot," Light says, more to himself than anyone else. "Over and over and over."

L frowns. "Now you're exaggerating."

"I'm not," snaps Light. "I was there."

"Me, too." L peeks around a corner, waving his hands. His wrists smack into a wall. Dead end. "You were shot twice. Pretty sure you're remembering wrong."

"I'm not," Light dismisses immediately. "Damn Matsuda. Shooting me. And then you all left me for dead."

Leave it to Light to trap someone in a maze all so he can talk them to death. L has a feeling that his code name is not just a reference to an affinity for lagomorphs.

"Left me for dead on those stairs."

Okay, if Light's gab nor gun is not the thing to kill him it certainly will be his tendency for revisionist history.

" _What_ stairs?" L snaps, before jumping and kicking at a corner. His foot brushes past fur. The rabbit leaps away, rocketing out of the maze. "There were no stairs!"

"Don't yell at me!"

Tiny, frantic footsteps precede the pain in L's ankle. He falls. As Light scrambles on top, L struggles, pushing his palms against anything of Light's, hands slipping over a smooth surface as he tries to get a hold of the murderer's shirt. The struggle stops once Light puts (what L guesses is) his miniature handsaw to his throat. Vision barely piercing the umbra, L can just see Light's eyes wild and wide with mania...

Or maybe that is a memory.

"There were stairs," Light spits. "Stairs, and I... "

Creaky, gasping laughter tickles L's ears. It is not Armonia's.

He for a moment does not feel the teeth of the saw on his Adam's apple. Then they are back, teasing tender flesh. "No. It was... Fire? Or was that the sun in my eyes and you were there, I know you were there, you're always there!"

His small hands cover that Adam's apple, squeezing and clenching. "Always there! Ruining everything! Pretending, pretending, lying, acting like you were my friend! But _I'm_ the one who's called a liar." Warm fluid sprinkles L's face, and he does not rule it out that Light is frothing at the mouth at this point. "This is my world! My world!"

A razor edge grazes L's throat. He grunts and jerks back.

"MINE!"

L pulls up his legs and powers his feet straight through Light's gut. The boy, the man, the ghost cries out as he hits a playing card. They both go down.

L uses this moment to take Light by the ankle and, ignoring any nicks and cuts that Light might incur with his little saw, drags him through the labyrinth while pushing over pasteboard royalty, limping as he cuts through a good deck or two before reaching the labyrinth's exit.

Suddenly the room is dyed in hues of blood and Honeycrisps. Sunset bleeds lightly through the red curtains. L, grateful to see, stares dumbly at the ebbing flame behind the pall. Light uses this.

The saw scrapes L's forearm. At his shout, Light scrambles away. He retrieves his Note from under his shirt, opens it and readies his pen. Breathing hard, his bangs in his face, Light lowers pen to paper.

"I may not remember your name," he hisses, nodding in the direction of the injured party just outside of the labyrinth, "but I know _his_."

They stand, staring and not daring to even move an inch, breathe, or allow their hearts to beat. For one forever minute, the room, the twilit cityscape outside, and the world vanish into a void. It is just them, as it always has been.

In a flutter of darkness and feathers, a creature that is more leather and stitches than being is at Light's side. The Shinigami Ryuk throws back his head and cackles. "God!" he crows. "Is this a touching reunion or what?" Ryuk nods to L. "Why don't we take a break? Have a round of Mario Kart, crack open some cider."

Shaking his head, Ryuk scratches his shriveled nose and grins at L. "Man, I can't believe I let you kill yourself. No, I still can't believe I killed him." He jerks a clawed thumb towards Light. "You guys are a regular comedy duo! The comic and the straight man! The _boke_ and the _tsukkomi_."

L and Light do not take their eyes off of one another.

"You two," Ryuk snickers, "it's like you were made for each other."

Ignoring the Shinigami, L swallows. "You don't even remember how you died. You can't possibly remember a name you never had access to."

"I'll do it," Light bites out. His hand shakes, knuckles paling as he curls his fingers even tighter around the barrel. "I...can..."

"How did you die again, Light?" L asks softly. "Fire, you said?"

"N—no, I..." The quaking intensifies. "I was...there was a fan..."

L shuffles forward half an inch. "Who killed you?"

Breathing heavily, Light presses his Note to his chest. "Near. It was Near."

"How could Near have killed you if he didn't come to the orphanage until after your death?"

"He..." Light whispers, running the hand still gripping the pen through his hair. His other hand, grip tight on the Note, joins in on the frantic grooming. "He did! He killed...it was him...it was him!"

Light shakes his head violently, as if trying to empty his skull of his fractured thoughts. "No, no, no, no," he whispers, hugging and rocking himself. "No, no, no, nnnnnnn."

He grabs his head, mussing his hair as he clutches and pulls at his fringe. "Stop," he whispers, sounding like the little boy whose face and voice he has stolen.

His features warp and the little boy is gone. "STOP FUCKING WITH ME!" Light screams, attempting to launch himself at L. He trips over himself and is sent stumbling to the floor. Light remains there, face buried in the carpet as he breathes heavily and twitches.

"Something went wrong with you, didn't it?" L murmurs at the form on the floor. "And I'm not just talking about when you were alive."

Armonia speaks up. "Memories are tricky things. Traumatic deaths typically shouldn't be included in memory retrievals."

Ryuk chuckles. "Had to handicap him somehow, though, huh? And even though you picked a child, a traumatized child even, to serve as his meat sack my rook still got to this point." He grins. "I win, Armonia."

"Not quite," grunts the jeweled skeleton. "Gloat when there's a dead body. And that doesn't look like it will be happening anytime soon."

Ryuk pushes Light with his foot. "Come on, buddy. Get up. I don't care about becoming King but I've got all kinds of apples riding on this."

Light says not a word. L crouches down, and lifts up his bangs.

"Face it, Light," he says. "I'll always win. As long as you live in this world, I'm going to be here. I, your foil. You, my shadow. In life and after death." He hooks a finger under his small chin and lifts it from the floor. "Count. On. It."

The irises that meet his are suddenly fearful, watery specks of color. "Where am I?" he whispers. "Where's my mother?" Raizo Beppu's little face contorts. L feels a blockage in his throat.

It is unsettling to be reminded that, when it comes down to it, you are only a memory and that maybe your body is more alive than that memory. Perhaps it may even have memories of its own and feelings that you have never felt.

Then the fear drains from the child's gaze as soon as he presses the Note to his chest.

"Had to train him to do that," Light grumbles, picking himself up off the floor. "Took days. If only I could have taken that idiot kid's comatose body instead." He glares at Ryuk, muttering, "Damn Shinigami" under his breath.

A distant rumbling and trembling rattles the drapery rings. Somewhere at the other end of the room, the SPK break down the door, shouting as they stampede over to Near.

"Anyway," Light says casually, stretching. "Don't think you'll be getting your apples today, Ryuk. Looks like a draw."

L has out a pair of handcuffs in a second. "No. You've definitely lost."

The rumbling draws near, the floor shudders, and L has a feeling he has spoken too soon.

"I'd get down if I were you," Light drawls just before a wrecking ball crashes through the wall. L shoves his body to the ground just as shards of glass pelt the floor. A helicopter hovers to the hole in the wall, blasting with its spinning blades the wreckage all around them and toppling the maze.

"You're late," he shouts to the man who leaps from the chopper. The winds of the aircraft brush aside the length of hair partially covering the Kira supporter's face. He takes off a pair of goggles and bows his head.

"Apologies, Lord Kira," the man says before offering his hand. Light takes it, and throws a gloating look to the prostrated figure behind him.

"You never won," he spits at L as he boards the helicopter. "And I will make sure you never will." He is taken up, up and away into the fire engine-red sky until he is not even a mote.

 **1=1=1=1**

 **EPILOGUE**

At eleven o'clock that night, all of the world gathers at their computers, congregates in their living rooms, stuffs themselves into bars, and refreshes their social media every minute on the minute.

In Japan, Soichiro stares without really seeing anything at the collection of pixels that make up the news anchor's face.

"This is Miho Sato with NHN news. Our top story tonight is the incident at the First Church of Kira. Fifty were injured today in riots taking place at the church. One dead—Hikaru Tsukuyomi, who claimed to be the original Kira, one Light Yagami, before succumbing to a heart attack. We reached out to the NPA, Interpol, anyone who might be able to support such claims. They have declined to comment. Witnesses, however, had this to say—"

Soichiro tunes all of it out. Sachiko stands in the entrance of the living room. She looks like she has aged a lot more than ten years.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

She waits there for several minutes, turning and softly bidding her husband a "Good night" at a quarter to twelve.

Rubbing his eyes, Soichiro takes it out again, the piece of wrinkled loose leaf found deep in the back of his office desk drawer. Taking a deep breath, he looks at it. Again.

Written in red crayon and the neatest kanji, the message is aligned perfectly in the center of the page.

"I am sorry."

Miho Sato narrates the last of the news. "And finally, Minoru Furusawa was found dead from heart failure in a crane, just after crashing a wrecking ball through a building, previously a toy museum—"

When Soichiro falls asleep mere minutes later, he dreams of a child. He is pure with a sunshine smile, with a round moon face, with eyes like a curious fox, who speaks in nothing but laughter. He beckons to Soichiro, who can do nothing but watch helplessly as the boy sinks and sinks in a puddle of tar while laughing, laughing, laughing his head off.

Come morning, early, early morning, he has a fresh cup of coffee in his hands. He watches the sun come up, painting the lawns and streets in shades of pyrite and he finds that not even the sight of such beauty can spark a song in his heart. Dawns upon this world will be different from now on, he realizes. They will be dimmer—colder.

So he prays.

 **Author Notes** :

I was going to make the epilogue a separate chapter...but it's so short...so what's the use I ask you.

I could have done this like a long-shot...like I originally wanted...oh well...

I got this plot bunny in my head around March of this year and I couldn't let it go especially after reading the synopsis of Light Up the New World which was...something. I thought the DNA stuff didn't make sense so I was like but what if it kind of did and that is why this fic is here. I already have ideas for a sequel so let's hope I don't burn out.

I had in mind the song As Heaven is Wide by Garbage as I was writing this. It might be a strange choice but I think it fits Death Note better than fucking Dani California omg. Read and review, please.

Until next time!


End file.
